


Harvest Season

by anupturnedboat



Series: axgweek2020 [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Let's Get Drunk, Loss of Parent(s), Romance, Wine, Wine country, axg week 2020, axgweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25679542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anupturnedboat/pseuds/anupturnedboat
Summary: Winterfell is beautiful this time of year, bustling with activity, and enveloped by the rich scent of barbecue, and harvest, and lavender.  It reminds her of father’s long, solemn face, of running through the rows with Bran, of her mother’s soft smile.She shakes away the memories, Winterfell is so full of them, she wonders, for the umpteenth time, if coming home had been a mistake.Then she spots him.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Series: axgweek2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862089
Comments: 21
Kudos: 86





	Harvest Season

**Author's Note:**

> For Arya x Gendry Week 2020/Let’s Get Drunk
> 
> I’ve been mulling over this thing for so long, and axgweek finally gave me the push to finish it and let it fly. I drank a lot of wine – for research. I like a crisp Sauvignon Blanc, how about you?

**Gendry I**

“Sangiovese,” Davos Seaworth, the man who had picked him up at the airport points out as they pass a row of vines that look like every other row of vines, “and up ahead, Primitivo.”

“Hmmm,” Gendry grunts.He doesn’t know fuck all about vines, or grapes, or wine really.It’s partly why he accepted this deal with Stannis Baratheon, he was not remotely interested in inheriting any part of a vineyard from a father he’d never known.But he wasn’t an idiot. He’d been swimming in debt, and getting way too old to keep playing the part of starving artist. The rent on his shitty apartment was about to go up, and he didn’t have a safety net, a family to fall back on, so he’d signed over his share in exchange for his own place and a modest trust fund.But the main reason was the forge that Stannis Baratheon threw in as part of the deal, what were the odds?

Sensing his dark mood he supposes, Davos Seaworth doesn’t try to engage him again, and he’s grateful for the silence. Soon they are pulling onto a much smaller dirt road that ends abruptly in front of a structure, that Stannis Baratheon had called a “cottage in need of some repair.”Even from the backseat of the town car Davos Seaworth had picked him up in, he can tell that _dilapidated_ would have been a better description.Fuck.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay at the Manor House son?” Davos Seaworth asks as Gendry pulls his one bag and satchel of tools out of the trunk.“At least until you get this place shored up? Marya can make up a room.”

Gendry has no idea what the _Manor House_ is, but just the term sounds pretentious, it further sours his mood.“Thanks, but this will do.”

Davos Seaworth glances at him uncertainly, and Gendry can tell there is something on the tip of the older man’s tongue, but perhaps he thinks better of it and instead claps Gendry on the shoulder before shutting the trunk.“If you need anything at all, we’re just up the road. Oh, and before I get forget, there is a truck around back.Keys are in the visor, it’s not much to look at but it will get you where you need to go.”

Gendry waits until the town car is well down the road before taking another critical look at his “cottage.”With a sigh he starts up the steps, which promptly sag under his weight. 

_____

The first thing he learns is that it gets so fucking hot by mid-morning that it is impossible to get anything done.So he’s up at the crack of dawn going over his to do list, which frustratingly has grown rather than shrunk. 

The roof is his first priority, as much as he’s been itching to patch up the forge and get it in proper working order.He’s good with his hands and has some construction experience, but it’s a much bigger job than he can do on his own.However, the crew he hired can’t make it out until Thursday. He’s eager to get started though, so today he’s planning on stripping off all the rotting and broken shingles and maybe patching the hole on the west side if he can.

He keeps an eye on the horizon, working fast against the rising sun. The air is as cool as it's going to get, but he’s still dripping about fifteen minutes in. He strips off his shirt, tucking it into his waistband. A flash of something in the distance catches his attention.

He keeps pulling shingles up one by one, but finds himself distracted by what he can now see is a woman on horseback.They are moving fast, and heading in his direction. He hopes she keeps going.He’s not in the mood to make niceties with any of Robert Baratheon’s snooty neighbors.

It’s been several days since he’s seen or even talked to anyone other than Davos and Davos’ wife Marya.They had stopped by with a basket of baked goods and lemonade they said were left over from party at the estate. Hadn’t wanted it to go to waste, at least that is what they’d said.But he was pretty sure that they were just making sure he was still alive.

The sun is his eyes now, and he knows he’s losing time to get this done, but his attention keeps drifting back towards the woman on the horse.She turns her head just then and he can tell she’s noticed him.Fuck.

She pulls up the reins of her horse just a few yards away, eyeing him curiously, her head cocked to the side.

“Who are you?” she shouts up at him, boldly, but not unpleasantly.

“I live here. Who are you?” he barks back more gruffly than he had intended, pulling his shirt from his waistband and wiping his brow.

He can tell he’s offended her by the way she bristles, but she keeps her expression neutral. “You live in this dump?”

He takes her in, she’s wearing an expensive looking riding outfit with boots that go up to her knees.Her windswept hair is cut short, angled to her chin.She raises one manicured brow waiting for his response. He’d think her pretty if not for the way it feels like she’s interrogating him.

“This is private property you know.”

“Is it?” She looks around at the vast nothingness that surrounds his rather sad “property.”“I’ll keep that in mind,” she retorts sharply as she pulls on the reins, and gallops off back in the direction she came.

_____

He’s narrowed it down to three colors, and paints a square of creamy white paint next to a gray hued square.He’s pretty sure he’s not going to go with the mossy green, but _what hell, who knows_ he thinks, adding it to the back side of the house next to the others to see how it will look in full sun. 

As he’s putting the lids back on the paint samples he hears a car coming up the dirt road.He isn’t surprised to see Davos Seaworth stepping out of the town car, but he stops short as Stannis Baratheon emerges from the back passenger side.He shoves his paint splattered hands into his pockets.

He’d had energy efficient windows installed for the entire house earlier in the week, and it made sense that Stannis Baratheon would want to know what had cost so much.He’d been given carte blanche to charge all repairs to the company card, and he is fully prepared to stand by the pricey upgrade.

But Stannis Baratheon doesn’t say a word about the windows, or the new roof.He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, inspecting the rebuilt porch steps and railings.“There used to be two wooden rockers on the front porch.”Gendry doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“It’s really coming along,” Davos observes, trying to restart the stilted conversation.

Stannis Baratheon’s eyes flick over the front windows, the refinished front door, to the new roof.Gendry can’t tell if he is pleased of indifferent.He can’t stop the scowl that works its way onto his face.Why does he even care what Stannis Baratheon thinks? This place is his anyway, they had a contract.

“Your presence is required,” Stannis Baratheon abruptly changes the subject.

“Required where?”

“At the stomp tonight,” Davos explains.

“The what?”

“I’ll explain on the way up,” Davos says opening the passenger door for Stannis Baratheon.“Be ready by six, I’ll be picking you up.”

“I don’t drink wine,” Gendry calls out. Going up to the estate is literally the last thing he wants to do tonight, or any night for that matter.

“Good,” Stannis Baratheon frowns, “god knows your father drank it just fine.”

_____

A crowd of people wearing numbered lanyards are gathered in the courtyard.On the way over Davos had explained that tonight kicked off the harvest season, and that the Stomp Party was the event of the year at Storms End. Apparently, whoever stomped the most grapes was awarded a seat for the night on a replica of a medieval throne that was part of Robert Baratheon’s personal collection of priceless artifacts.It sounded ridiculous.

He realizes he is an idiot for worrying that Stannis Baratheon would question his home improvements, it was clear no expense had been spared on this party.Round tables covered in fancy linens were set up throughout the courtyard, which was strung from end to end with strands of Edison bulbs.Servers dressed in starched white shirts and black ties were serving hors d’oeuvres on silver platters.

Gendry felt hopelessly out of place in his off brand button down, and paint still under his fingernails no matter how hard he’d scrubbed.He leans uncomfortably against an unoccupied bar table away from the growing crowd of people, wondering how quick he can slip away.A server offers him something called a trout rillettes. It’s fucking delicious, he has to admit. He’s still got a mouthful of cracker, when someone slaps him on the back.

“Nephew!”

Gendry coughs in surprise.

A man, with black hair like his own, but looking remarkably like Stannis, beams at him.

Gendry scowls in return.

“I’ve just gotten back from High Garden,” the man smiles, ignoring Gendry’s silence, “otherwise I would have come by sooner to meet you and see all the work you’ve done on Heritage House.”

_Heritage House?_

“Stannis is so sentimental about the place.But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Gendry racks his brain, trying to remember the other Baratheon brother. “I’m Renly, the fun Baratheon,” the man says taking pity on him, just as a group of people all wearing gray t-shirts who seem to be engaged in a tense conversation stop in front of them.

“Sansa Stark!” Renly calls out, and a woman with long auburn hair turns.“Marjorie says to tell you that you must come visit her soon.”

“Maybe after the holidays,” the red headed woman smiles. 

“So who’s on the team this year?” Renly asks. 

Gendry doesn’t really know or care what the hell they are talking about, and quickly tunes out of the conversation.It would be an opportune moment to slip away, but just as he’s looking for the best escape route, one of the people in the group, a woman, with a cute, short haircut turns. 

Her eyes sweep over him, her expression shifting from indifferent to glowering.It’s the girl on the horse from a couple of weeks ago. Fuck.

“Well, we’re one short,” the red haired woman is saying to Renly.“If we don’t find someone we’ll have to drop out.”

“Fucking Theon,” the scowling woman grumbles, turning her withering gaze from Gendry back to the group.

“Long story,” the red haired woman sighs.

“What about Gendry here?” Renly offers, slapping him on the back, with far more familiarity than Gendry is comfortable with.“The Baratheon’s and Starks have a long history of friendship.”

“What?” Gendry squawks as Renly pushes him forward.The red haired woman eyes him curiously, before smiling at Renly.

“That’s a wonderful idea!Team Stark? Good with you?”

“Doesn’t it sound like fun?” Renly beams at him.

The dark haired woman looks furious.

“No!” they exclaim in unison.

_____

“Let’s get one thing straight, we came to win, so you better take this seriously,” she scowls putting a lanyard with the number 11 printed on it around her neck.She smacks a matching one into his chest.

“If you want to sit on a throne so bad, there are probably better ways to go about it,” he mutters.

“I don’t give a shit about that stupid thing,” she snarls, before bending down to roll up the bottoms of her pants. “I just don’t want that bastard Ramsay Bolton getting the win.”

Gendry silently follows her lead, rolling up his jeans, he doesn’t know who Ramsay Bolton is, but he does know he wouldn’t want to be in his shoes right about now. 

She steps into the wooden barrel first. He hesitates. There really isn’t enough room for two people.She rolls her eyes.“Just keep your feet and your hands to yourself.”

As they get settled, keeping as far apart from each other as the wooden barrel will allow, a young man in a wheelchair rolls up between their barrel, and the one next to them.“You’ve got this,” he grins, with two enthusiastic thumbs up. 

“Keep them honest,” the woman scowls, nodding over at the unassuming group next to them. 

_What the fuck has he gotten himself into?_ Or more accurately, what the fuck, has his “uncle” gotten him into?

“Bran’s the referee,” she explains tersely, noticing the look on his face.“His job is to make sure they are playing by the rules.”

“Oh.”

“Meera,” she says, nodding at a girl standing on the other side of their barrel, “is the ref for their team. She’ll watch us.”

“Seems like a good system,” he mumbles, still bewildered by the whole thing.

She sighs exasperatedly, “Its dumb ok? I know that.But it is a tradition around here, bragging rights blah, blah, blah.I can’t stand the thought of Bolton rubbing it in our faces if he wins and we lose.”

“So this guy is a real bastard then?”

“He’s a stalker and a creep, and totally obsessed with my sister.”

_Well, ok then._

Somewhere a whistle is blown, and everyone jumps into action at once.Within a few minutes, a man with curly dark hair runs up and dumps a bucket of grapes into the barrel.“Start stomping,” she demands. Gendry has no idea what he is doing, but tries to follow her lead.The grapes are wet and slippery between his toes.“Faster,” she shouts.He tries to match her pace and steps down on her foot, hard. 

“Oh my god!” she shouts annoyed.

“Sorry, I have no idea what I’m doing!”

“Duh!Just keep your caveman feet to yourself yeah?”

He tries, he really does, but when the same man dumps another bucket of grapes onto their feet, she starts moving, and he tries to avoid bringing his feet down on top of hers, and they almost topple right out of the barrel.

“Can’t you just, ugh-”

“This thing is too small for two people!”

“It’s not,” she argues, grabbing his forearms, and pulling him towards her, “if we move at the same time it will be easier.” 

He nods down at her, his palms cupping her elbows.She determinedly looks up at him through long lashes, that he’s just now noticed. It’s rather distracting. He doubts this is going to go any better, now that they are holding on to each other, but, miraculously, it seems to work and they pick up an easy rhythm. 

“I’m Arya,” she huffs with exertion, “if I had known you were the newest Baratheon, I would have been nicer before.”

“Would you have?” he grimaces, knowing he might be pressing his luck, but to his surprise, she only raises a brow. 

“Maybe.”

Sansa, who is apparently Arya’s sister, starts collecting the juice from the spout in their barrel.“Good job guys,” she yells.“We’re catching up!”

Their heat lasts another several minutes, before the whistle is blown again.They are both a sweaty mess, and red goop has traveled up his pants leg, but Arya is no longer scowling at him, so he supposes it is worth it. 

“Ahem,” she coughs, and he quickly drops his hands, that are still clutching her.

She steps out of the barrel first, and he follows, but the instant his sticky, wet, feet hit the sticky, wet, wooden platform, he knows he’s going down. 

His feet gracelessly fly up from under him, and his ass hits the platform hard.It is utterly mortifying.

Arya stops in her tracks, throws back her head and lets out an obnoxious guffaw.He’s embarrassed that it would be charming if he wasn’t covered in sticky grape skins, and on his ass in front of a bunch of rich pricks.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, stifling a grin, pulling him to his feet.

“Only my pride.”

_____

They don’t win.But neither does Bolton, so at least he doesn’t get eviscerated by team Stark.His jeans are a mess, and honestly he’s done his duty, so he slips away from the crowd that is migrating towards the “throne room” where dinner is being served.

“You’re taking it harder than I am,” Arya remarks, suddenly appearing at his elbow, catching him by surprise. 

“Shouldn’t you be drinking the fruit of our labor with everyone else?”

“They don’t actually make wine out of that,” she rolls her eyes.

“Obviously,” he mutters, but he can’t help thinking how wasteful the whole thing was. _Did they just toss out all that goop?_

“Not really my scene,” she shrugs. “If you ask me the armory is far more interesting.The stuff in there is the real deal, not replicas.”

He has no idea what she is talking about, and he supposes it shows on his face, because she stops short, and plants her hands on her hips.“Don’t tell me you’ve been shuttered up in that old cottage this whole time and haven’t explored this place.Robert was not just a connoisseur of wine, he also had a hard on for medieval weaponry, torture devices, suits of armor.There is an actual iron maiden in the cellar! I used to beg my dad to let me explore down there every time we came up to visit.”

At the mention of Robert’s name, he feels a frown work its way onto his face.Arya’s quick to see it.“Not a fan or weaponry, or Robert Baratheon?”

“Never even knew him,” he says through his teeth, trying and failing to keep his tone neutral.

He can see her appraising gaze out of the corner of his eye, is surprised that it does not make him feel inadequate or angry.He has the inexplicable urge to tell her what it was like finding out that Robert Baratheon was his father.But he clamps his mouth shut instead.

“You weren’t missing anything, he may have been my father’s best friend, but he was kind of twat, may his soul rest in peace.”

He still can’t conjure up a smile, but he feels the tension in his shoulders ease just a bit.Arya tilts her head inquisitively. “Are you headed home? I can give you a ride.”

“That’s ok, I’ll walk. It’s not far,” he declines brusquely, thinking the exact opposite.He’s not looking forward to walking down a dark dirt road, in grape stained jeans, but if spares him any more awkward social interaction he’ll chance it.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she rolls her eyes, beckoning him to follow her.

“I don’t want to make a mess in your car,” he calls out, gesturing to his stained jeans.

“Not possible,” she replies dismissively, beckoning him, “Come on.”

He finds himself following her to an old jeep with ripped seats that are covered in what he assumes is dog hair. “She’s a hand me down from my brother, looks like shit, but runs just fine,” she explains.

Perhaps he’s misjudged her a bit, first impressions aside; she’s not as bad some of the other rich fucks he’s made a point to stay away from.He perches on the edge of his seat, while the jeep bounces down the dirt road, trying to keep his stained clothes from touching anything.He imagines he should be making polite conversation, she’s doing him a favor after all, but then he remembers he’s shit at polite conversation. So, he keeps his eyes on the road, the million stars in the sky . . . the crack in the dashboard - anything other than the cool night air tousling Arya’s hair about her face.

_Why is he even noticing that right now?’_

It’s both too soon and torturously forever, before they are pulling up to the cottage. “Thanks for the ride,” he grounds out feeling like he’s sixteen, foolish and tongue tied around a pretty girl.

“Of course,” she nods. 

He wants to say more, he’s not even sure what, but his brain and mouth rarely cooperate in situations like this so he climbs out and shuts the door behind him.

“You fix that squeaky floorboard in front of the staircase?” she calls out her window, cutting through his thoughts, just as he’s made it to the first step,

“How do you know about that?”

“Please.This place has been abandoned for as long as I remember. Everyone has gotten high or made out here. But I guess you’ve ruined that now,” she jests, her brow arched, a flicker of mischief in her gaze.

“Good to know,” he nods, “maybe I’ll leave it . . .for posterity’s sake.”

“That seems fair,” she replies with mock seriousness. She knocks the jeep into reverse, but before she backs out, she leans out the driver’s side window once again, catching him just as he’s made it to the front door “I’ll see you around Gendry Baratheon.”

He stills at her words, he should clarify that, the Baratheon bit.But she’s already out of earshot. He turns the key in the lock and flips the switch just inside the door.

He’s only ever been a Waters and that’s not changing now.Not that it matters, to Arya Stark anyway, she was just being polite.He leaves his shoes by the front door, more than ready to head upstairs, change and crawl into bed.

His foot hits that squeaky floorboard, and her words come back to him. If he spends the rest of the night thinking about squeaky floorboards and making out with Arya Stark, no one has to ever know.

**Arya I**

“Do it,” Sansa orders, already bored, not even looking up from her laptop, her elegant fingers curling around the handle of her coffee mug. 

“Do what?” Bran interrupts wheeling into the kitchen.

“Invite a hot guy to the party tonight.”

“Are we talking about the dude that fell on his ass?” Bran correctly guesses.

“This is stupid.I’m not going to-”

“You definitely should.”

Sansa sets down her coffee mug, and gives Arya one of those looks that she hates, one that reminds her so much of their mother, that her chest aches. “He’s hot, he’s into you-”

“You don’t know that.You exchanged like two sentences with him.”

“I can sense these things,” her sister says arching her brow, “and he is. Just invite him, and see if there are any sparks.What do you have to lose?”

 _Only my dignity,_ Arya thinks sourly.“He’s a Baratheon, he’s probably a total fuckboy, and I do not have time for that.”

Although, the truth is that she has all the time in the world. She hadn’t had a boyfriend since Ned Dayne, and ever since she’d come home, she’d found herself drifting aimlessly.Jon and Sansa didn’t really need her help running the vineyard, and honestly, after mother and Rob’s accident, it had felt more like a graveyard than a home anyway _.Maybe coming back here had been a colossal mistake._

“Or he’s new in town,” Bran interjects, interrupting her thoughts, his gaze contemplative, “And could use a friend.”

“For fucks sake,” Arya mutters, knowing she is going to give in. 

She grabs Nymeria’s leash, and her keys.She gets her big dog settled in the jeep, trying not to overthink it, which is no use, because all she is doing is over thinking it.“Fuck it, why not?” she says to Nymeria, whom she is sure would be rolling her eyes if she could.

She could use a distraction, something to keep her mind from running over the details of the accident, from ruminating on her father’s still unsolved murder.From trying to dredge up leads on a case that was officially cold as far as the police were concerned.It’s not healthy, she knows.

_____

_Fuck,_ this is such a bad idea.She never does this.Never wastes time thinking about some guy.But here she is, making the short drive to Storms End and turning onto the dirt road that led to that old cottage he’d been working on.

Her mind flashes to that first day she’d come across him, shirtless, muscled, shucking roof shingles to the ground with a scowl.She’d thought him handsome until he’d barked at her about trespassing.Which was ridiculous, because no one even knew where the property lines were, and the Baratheon’s and Starks had been neighbors and friends for longer than she’d been alive. And literally no one cared about that abandoned old place anyway.

She hadn’t known who he was then, and had written him off as just some spoiled asshole, probably a friend of Joffrey’s, if that spoiled asshole actually had any.

But then he’d been at the Stomp, looking grim and miserable, and clearly out of place, and she’d felt herself softening towards him.It had to be hard being shoved into a new family as if you should just suddenly belong because you share blood. His brilliant blue eyes, and strong forearms, hadn’t hurt towards changing her mind about him either.

She shook her head, _no,_ this was not like _that_.She was merely going to extend an offer of friendship like Bran had said.

Still, by the time she’s pulling up to his place, she’s almost completely changed her mind, and turned the jeep back around to go home.Why in the hell would he want to hang out with her?Even with free wine, he’d probably rather be doing anything else, she thinks.She hadn’t exactly been nice, or wowed him with her gracious personality like Sansa would have.Sansa, who has men falling all over themselves just to be in her presence, not that Arya cares about that sort of thing.

And by now he’s probably heard about her family, heard about father.And people always looked at her family differently once they knew, like they were cursed or something. She couldn’t stand platitudes, pity, or having to pretend like she was ok, like she was coping, it made her want to punch things. 

_And pretty girls don’t punch things_ , a voice, that sounds like mothers, chides, before she shakes it away.

It was the reason why she’d stayed away so long, why she’d dodged questions about her family while studying in Braavos. Why she didn’t come home for mother and Robb’s funerals.

She’s not sure if she is glad or disappointed that it looks like he isn’t home.But before she can truly turn chicken shit, she grabs a rock from the flower bed and uses it to hold down one of the glossy Winterfell Pick up Party invites that Sansa had printed at his front door.

_____

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t a bundle of nerves, half hoping he wouldn’t come, and half hoping he would.But she keeps this to herself, straightens her shoulders, and avoids Sansa’s raised brow at all costs.

Winterfell is beautiful this time of year, bustling with activity, and enveloped by the rich scent of barbecue, and harvest, and lavender.It reminds her of father’s long solemn face, of running through the rows with Bran, of her mother’s soft smile.

She shakes away the memories, Winterfell is so full of them, she wonders, for the umpteenth time, if coming home had been a mistake.

Then she spots him.

He’s got his hand in his pockets, watching the bluegrass band she’d hired for the event. She has to admit, he’s got his father’s look, but he’s not boisterous and loud the way she remembers Robert Baratheon.Instead, he is controlled, cautious. She finds herself transfixed by the permeant scowl, finds herself wondering what it would be like to soothe it away.

_This was so stupid._

“Hey.”

The scowl dissipates into a briefly startled expression, before his blue eyes fix on hers.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” she shouts up at him over the music. 

“They’re not half bad,” he replies, leaning down so she can hear him over the music. A warm flush works its way up her neck and the tips of her ears, at his sudden nearness. It’s beyond embarrassing. She averts her eyes from his, and keeps them on stupid Lem Lemoncloak for the rest of the song.

After, they move through the crowd, past the benches set up for barbecue and through the garden, where sunflowers grow almost as tall as he is.

“They had a one hit wonder in the nineties,” she blurts out feeling uncharacteristically awkward, although she forces her face into something more neutral.“The band? My Featherbed?Do you remember that one?”

“No, not really, never really listened to the shit on the radio.”

“Oh.Well, now they mostly play local dives.”

“And posh invite only parties at vineyards?”

The way he says it gives her pause, it’s obvious he thinks they’re all elitist fucks.He’s not wrong she guesses, she’s had the thought herself more than once.Most everyone came from old money around here. Or, had the kind of money you could stand to lose if it was a bad year. A lot of rich bigwigs liked the idea of having a vineyard, like it was a hobby, or a trophy to show off to their rich city friends.It all must seem so superficial to him.

“Tom owes me,” she shrugs, instead of trying to explain why she, should not be considered an elitist fuck, or Winterfell some ostentatious expression of wealth. 

He looks like he wants to ask, but he doesn’t.She takes the time to admire the strong set of his jaw, his broad shoulders.

“I’ll admit I’m surprised you came,” she finally says, “I had the distinct impression you hated these kinds of things.”

“Why’d you invite me then?”

“We’re neighbors,” she shrugs, hoping she sounds more nonchalant than she feels, “I was just being neighborly.”

“Neighborly huh?” he scoffs, but it’s clear he’s teasing. She pushes his shoulder in mock indignation. He doesn’t budge. _He’s strong,_ she thinks, surreptitiously admiring the way his muscles feel under his shirt.

“So, your family owns this place then?” he asks shielding his eyes against the sun, the rows of heritage vines before them in the distance.

“It does,” she answers carefully, painfully aware of how some people viewed the Stark name, “Winterfell has been in my family for generations.My brother and sister run things now, but I help out where I can.”

“It’s nice,” he says just as carefully, “nicer than Storms End.”

She scoffs at that.

“Also, it is Waters, not Baratheon.” He squints at something in the distance, tension rolling off of him.“You said Baratheon the other night, and I just wanted to clear that up. It was my mom’s name. Don’t see any point in changing it now.”

“ _Was_ your mom’s name? As in-”

“Yeah, she’s gone now,” he replies, gruffly. He lets out a breath, and pushes his dark hair out of his eyes.

They walk in silence for a bit.There is a flurry of questions on the tip of her tongue, but one glance at the furrow between his brows tells her that it would be a mistake, would upset the delicate balance between them, so she kicks a rock out of their path into the shrubbery instead. “Waters it is then,” she pronounces, “it suits you better anyway, sorry about your mom.”

Arya thinks again, about what a shock it must have been to be suddenly plunged into the Baratheon clan.She didn’t know all the details, but she knew people were gossiping about his mother, her affair with Robert all those years ago, his Flea Bottom upbringing. She thinks about what Bran had said, about him needing a friend.She can do that. “Hey, want to get out of here? Take a drive?”

_____

“We hand harvest all the grapes here,” Harwin states proudly as he hands them each a pair of shears, then a pail. “Arya can show you how. She’s been underfoot, since she was this tall,” Harwin winks.“Chasing cats like a-”

“Ok, thanks Harwin,” she groans loudly, annoyed, pulling Gendry away.Sometimes she forgets that everyone here still thinks of her as little Arya Underfoot, as Ned Stark’s precocious little girl, as _Arya Horseface._ The last one is something she’d rather Gendry never hear spoken aloud.

“Chasing cats?”

“Do not listen to a thing he says, he’s a senile old man,” she gripes leading him to a row far away from Harwin and the crew were starting to get things ready for tonight.“Here,” she says holding a cluster of grapes in one hand, “use those to snip the stem.”

Gendry makes the cut, and the cluster of grapes fall into her palm.She gently places them in the pail. “Not so hard right?”

“They do this all night?” he asks looking for another bunch.This time he holds the cluster, and she snips.He carefully puts them in the pail.“This has got to be hard work, back breaking, hours on end.”

“Yep, we usually start around midnight. These are Sauvignon Blanc, the first varietal we harvest each year.It’s better to harvest and get them to the crushpad before dawn, before it gets too hot. And yeah, we’re all ready to drop after, but it’s not so bad with everyone working together.”

“We?” he asks, crouching down to snip at a cluster further down. “I hadn’t imagined you as the farmhand type.”

 _How exactly had he imagined her_?She quickly brushes the thought away before that stupid flush can rush up her neck again, and rolls her eyes, “I’ve been part of the harvest crew since I could walk.”

He looks up at her, his black hair in his eyes in an attractive way that makes her fingers itch to push it back. For a long moment time turns liquid. She can hear the party in the distance — the band is playing that Fleetwood Mac cover she likes, but it is drowned out by the way her stupid heart is hammering in her chest. Time is reduced to the sensation of the late afternoon sun on her skin — _were his eyes always this intensely blue? —_ the hard line of his jaw-

“Arya Stark, you aren’t anything like I thought you would be,” he admits gruffly, breaking the spell, lowering his gaze, before gently dropping his cluster of grapes into their pail.

_____

“All I am saying is that it seems like an awful lot of work for fancy fermented grape juice,” he frowns, “never did understand why people like it so much, no offense.”

“None taken, I guess.Are you always this dour?”

He shrugs, but there is a hint of a smile on his lips, which makes her feel kind of giddy. They both take a sip of the wine she’s poured, and she narrows her eyes at him, “Not so bad for fancy fermented grape juice?”

“It’s the best fancy fermented grape juice I have ever had,” he chuckles, “I stand corrected.”

It’s gotten dark and the party is winding down, they sit across from each other on a picnic bench near the tasting room, a bottle of chardonnay between them.Arya knows her limit, two glasses, and then she’s a right mess.She’s not there yet, but she knows the tips of her ears are warm, and she’s smiling at him a lot more than is necessary. It feels nice, a little out of her comfort zone, but nice.

“You know, anything worth doing is worth a little hard work,” she says haughtily, taking another sip of her wine.

“Is that so?” he snorts, and sets his glass down.“Who are all these people anyway?” he asks nodding towards the dwindling crowd.

“Mostly friends and family, but the party is for our members.They are picking up their wine shipments for this quarter.”

“Must be nice,” he scowls.

“Snob,” she responds, but there is not bite in it.He smiles again, cautiously.

There is a part of her that wants to lean in to his warmth, to his lips . . .but she’s never been good at this kind of thing, and — _friends_ , yes, she had decided that they were going to be _friends_.So she shakes the thought away.

“This bottle,” she says tipping it back so he can see the buttery colored wine, and the Winterfell logo of a howling wolf, “is more than just something to get drunk on.”

He gives her this look like she is full of shit, but motions to her to go on.

“It’s like living history.See this,” she points to the year on the label, “this is the vintage, and the wine in this bottle tells the story of that year; whether it was a particularly wet spring, or a mild summer.It’s the way the wind was blowing through the leaves, the flavor of the soil, the hand that harvested the grapes, the . . . what?” she stops, noticing the way he’s looking at her.

“So you’re a poet too?” 

“Shut up! I’m teaching you about wine. _Gendry Waters_ , who’s just inherited a vineyard!”

“I didn’t come here for the wine,” he scoffs, “and I didn’t inherit shit, Stannis Baratheon offered me the forge on the property.That’s what I’ll be doing.”

“Ok then, what do I need to know about forging?” She can’t help the surge of curiosity. She’s finding Gendry Waters to be full of surprises, “Are we talking swords or suits of armor?”

“What is this the middle ages?More like tools, or brackets, or nails, if you want to pay the bills.Art, sculptures specifically, if you don’t. Not so exciting for a rich girl like you’d I imagine.”

“Try me,” she challenges him with an eye roll, and is rewarded with a crooked grin, which she just knows is a rare thing on his handsome face. 

“The trick is to hit the metal where you want, as hard as you want, as accurately as you can,” he says leaning in, his blue eyes, alight, “And then hope for the best.”

“You’re passionate about it,” she observes. 

“Aye, which is fortunate since it’s the only thing I ever been truly good at.”

“Well, I for one think it sounds very exciting . . . from a rich girl’s perspective.”

“Doesn’t really pay the bills, and clearly not as poetic as making wine,” he teases.

“Oh shut it,” she rolls her eyes, “All of that is something my dad used to say.He was sentimental about this place.”

They both take a sip of wine, and for all his sullenness, his teasing, his gaze has turned unerringly clear, piercing, and full of something . . .something that feels too overwhelming for her to deal with, two glasses in.

“He saved a vintage from the year each us were born,” she says instead, averting her eyes from his. “It was tradition to drink it with him on our 21st birthdays.”

“And how was yours Lady Stark? On your 21st birthday?”

She keeps her eyes on her hands twisting the stem of her wineglass, a sudden sick feeling in her stomach. She hadn’t meant to open this door, but two glasses of wine . . .so - “He died before then. I never did open it.”

**Gendry II**

He got the idea for the architectural light fixture from some show on HGTV. He doesn’t know shit about design, but he does know he can replicate it exactly, and better than what he’d seen on the show.It’s literally the only idea he has for the kitchen, which needs a complete overhaul, so he’s starting there, and hoping some inspiration will come. 

The forge at Storms End was rudimentary, but that was just fine with him, he didn’t need anything fancy. After he’d cleaned it out, chased away the mice, and patched the roof, it had been in fairly good working order. The hearth and the bellows had been well constructed and still worked just fine.It was utterly insane that some ancestor of his had built this place, had worked it, probably making hinges and pulleys, nails and horseshoes.It boggled his mind that it was now his, because of a one night stand and a DNA test.

In his wildest dreams he’d never imagined he’d own his own forge. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about all the rest of it, but it did feel good to be drawing out plans, turning the steel malleable and shaping it as he pleased.He’s testing the weight of the fixture, turning it in his hands, his gaze critical, when the light in front of the crooked wood door he’s propped open shifts, and Arya Stark appears, looking unfairly pretty.Like some kind of Juliet in black jeans.

He immediately pushes the thought away, keeps his eyes on his work, he’d reminded himself, more than once, not to read too much into their interaction at the party. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

He’d driven back that night, with her on his mind, but by the time he’d crawled into bed, he was chastising himself for acting like a teenager, Arya Stark was way out of his league, and he had no interest in being some rich girl’s summer fling. 

“What are you making?” she asks, ignoring his question.

“Just something for the house, maybe, we’ll see how it turns out.”

“How’s that going anyway?This place is officially no longer a dump, at least from the outside.”

“Thanks,” he snarks, feeling strangely protective of the house that has been his for all of a few months.But it was his, and he’d been pouring every ounce of himself into it. It may never be an estate, or a castle, or whatever the fuck kind of house Arya Stark lived in, but it was his.He knows he’s being defensive, but when he looks up, Arya’s regarding him with what seems like genuine interest, and it deflates his querulous mood, “I’ve got a whole kitchen to redo, no idea what I’m doing, but-”

“You should ask Sansa for design advice; she’s brilliant at that kind of thing.”

He tries to remember where he’s heard the name, but honestly he’s met a ton of people lately, and -

“My sister, the redhead,” she sighs exasperatedly.

“Yeah, sure, maybe,” he shrugs, knowing that he won’t. She arches her brow in a way that makes him feel a little sheepish, “What?”

“I think you need a break,” she says, her hands on her hips. 

_____

They join the group gathered outside the tasting room at Storms End waiting for the tour to start.“What if someone recognizes us?”

“What if they do?”

He can’t help the incredulous look that he gives her. 

“We have tickets,” she cajoles, “and, we’re not doing anything wrong. Technically.”

“It’s just weird, considering-”

“Take a breath, don’t worry, we won’t be on the tour for long anyway.”

“What does that mean?” he grimaces warily, “Arya-”

But before she has a chance to answer the docent arrives, and they line up with everyone else.Arya pulls the tickets from her back pocket, rolling her eyes at him.He tries to keep his head down.He has no idea if Stannis or Renly make it a habit to roam the grounds, and he has absolutely no desire to explain why he’s on a tour of their estate, when he’d been so clear that he did not give a shit about Robert Baratheon or Storms End.Arya was right, they weren’t doing anything wrong, but it felt wrong anyway, like he was creeping around behind their backs or something.

The group moves through the noisy tasting room and gift shop, and then through a large wooden door into a hallway. The docent uses a key card, and waves them through another set of doors and then through a courtyard, before reaching another building, where he uses his keycard again. Arya tugs Gendry towards her, letting the rest of the group filter ahead of them. “When we get to the end of the corridor, follow my lead.”

“What are we doing?” he frowns, knowing that he’s probably not going to be happy about whatever it is.

“You’ll see.You said you were a blacksmith, and-”

The docent waves the group forward and Arya kneels down and pretends to tie her shoe, “Don’t freak out, just follow me,” she commands under her breath.

At the end of the hallway the group follows the docent around the corner.Arya waits until the man turns and most of the group is walking down the length of the corridor before turning on her heel and tugging at his hand.He instinctively weaves his fingers in hers as she steps over a braided gold rope with a sign attached that reads _employees only_.

“Don’t worry, I’ve done this a million times,” she grins over her shoulder their fingers still linked.

He takes one last look over his shoulder and then follows her down a dim hallway. He lets her hand go after a moment, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

On the walls there are oil paintings of battles, bloody ones.In one a large man wields a war hammer, swinging it over head.There are several of knights in all their regalia. And one that he assumes is a king sitting ramrod straight on an uncomfortable looking throne.“What the fuck?”

He’s said it softly, but he’s still super paranoid, and looks down the long hallway in case someone is on to them.Arya has moved ahead of him, but turns back and stands next to him.

“What. The. Fuck?” he asks her. “Are these real?”

“Some are,” she says.“Robert spent a lot of time traveling around Europe collecting shit.My parents went with him a couple of times.”

Gendry moves away from the one of the king, and passes a few more; archers, and harpists, and horses, but one in particular catches his eye. It is a painting of a dark haired woman on a galloping horse, riding towards a forest of frozen pines.There is a gold plague underneath that simply reads _Lady Lyanna._ Arya’s tilts her head at the picture he’s looking at.“I’ve never noticed that one before.”

They look at it quietly a few minutes more, “My parents said that Robert was obsessed with the idea that the Baratheon's were descendants of some medieval king,” she whispers.

She must be joking, he waits for the punchline, but she just shrugs, “He was . . .”

“Yeah, I’m getting a real clear picture of what he was like,” he snaps, grouchily.

Arya lets him have a moment, and he feels terrible, it’s not her fault that all of this is so . . . weird.

“Come on,” she motions him to follow her to the end of the corridor.She pushes a heavy looking door open, “This is what I wanted you to see.”

The room is dark and smells faintly musty. There are weapons of every type on racks on the walls.He dare not touch, but just by looking at some of them, he can tell they are museum quality relics.“These are priceless,” he gapes at her. “We should definitely not be in here,” he says, feeling a little panicky.“Someone catches us in here - they’re going to think this is some kind of heist. And I don’t fancy going to prison, which is exactly what will happen if-”

“Chill,” Arya says softly, her hand on his forearm.“It’ll be fine I promise.”

 _Fine for her_ , he almost says, she’s a Stark, but he’s bloody nobody sneaking around where he isn’t supposed to be, ogling valuables.

“We can go if you want,” she relents, pulling him out of his thoughts, “I know you said you don’t make weapons, but I just thought-”

“No, s’its fine, I guess,” he mumbles swallowing down the anxiety that’s making his chest feel tight.“We’re already here,” he says, taking a breath, letting his eyes wander around the room, “It’s a shame all this stuff is just sitting here in the dark.”

“Right?!”

_____

Gendry isn’t sure how much time passes, how long he admires the craftsmanship of each sword and dagger he comes across.Arya takes a rapier from one of the racks, turning it over in her hands admiringly, but he keeps his hands in his pockets. After a while they hear voices outside and they both fall silent listening. _Fuck._ He glares at Arya, but she just puts a finger to her lips. 

The footsteps finally move past the door and they both sigh in relief.

“We should probably get out of here,” she whispers, and he nods relieved.

She tugs the door open softly and pokes her head out. He follows closely behind, not wanting to get caught by any passerby's.

They creep down the corridor like thieves in some old time movie. She’s light on her feet and he tries to copy her movements, but it’s useless, and when she turns to look at him, she breaks into one of those loud guffaws.He quickly clamps his hand over her mouth, shaking his head, but he can’t help the grin that fights its way onto his face, despite his deep reservations about the sneaking around.

“You are ridiculous,” she whispers, against his fingers.

“Oh really?” he murmurs, leaning in, his fingers tugging, suddenly, and of their own accord at her waist, “You’re the one that cooked up this harebrained scheme.”

“But it was awesome wasn’t it?” she replies happily, her brow rising roguishly.It’s completely adorable, and he thinks maybe-

Voices come echoing down the corridor and Arya freezes, cocking her head to the side. She moves quickly, her hand on his wrist pulling him into a nearby alcove.The space is way too small for them both, and they are forced to adjust to the tight space. He puts his palms on the wall on either side of her head, trying to keep his body out of sight. They can hear two women talking, their high heels clicking at they walk.

“Can you believe . . .?”

Arya is looking up at him, wide-eyed, beautiful.And when her eyes flick down to his lips and then back up, his heart actually skips a beat.He could lean down, just a bit, and -

“And just like that he’s inherited this whole place, because his mother was one of Robert’s harlots... ”

The words stop his brain in his tracks. He clenches his hands into fists against the wall. They are talking about him..

“Poor Cersei and the kids, he should be ashamed of himself.”

“. . . Scam artist if you ask me . . .”

There is part of him that wants to just tell whoever these two women are to fuck right off, that he never had any interest in inheriting anything, but Arya tugs at the hem of his shirt and he looks down at her. Her lips are angrily pursed, but she shakes her head. He nods, keeps his eyes on hers, trying to keep his breathing even.

_____

He knows it’s wrong, _petty_ , to not respond to any of Arya’s texts.She hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t her fault that he’d stormed away, humiliated.Furious at himself, at Robert Baratheon, at the shitty way people with money treated everyone without it.He’d never asked for any of this.

And honestly, he’s doing them both a favor by keeping his distance; it’d never work out between them anyway.From now on, he’d concentrate on finishing all the projects around the house, and get back to his metalwork.It was the whole reason he’d put himself in this position in the first place.All he needed was a place to lay his head and a forge to fire up.And maybe, after all was said and done, he’d sell the place off, and get the fuck out of here, move back to the city, with more money in his pocket than he’d shown up with.

He turns his phone off just as the dumpster he’s rented arrives.He signs the forms and watches the truck make its way back down the dirt road.He grabs his sledgehammer and heads inside, he’s still deciding on cabinets, and backsplash options, but nothing in the kitchen is going to stay. He’s looking forward to taking out his frustrations on the grimy cabinetry and the tearing up the ugly yellowing linoleum.He’s got no illusions that he’ll find hundred year old hardwood underneath, but once he sees what he’s working with, maybe he’ll have a better idea of what he wants to put in its place.

He hefts the sledgehammer over his shoulder and takes a very satisfying swing at one of the upper cabinets. It cants off the wall, crooked, but hanging on like a loose tooth.He uses his gloved hands to yank it back and forth until the last bolt tears free from the wall, and the cabinet comes free into his hands.The force of it causes him to lose his balance for just a moment, and he staggers back with the cabinet in his arms.He tosses it to the side, just missing Arya Stark, whose standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.

“You’re ghosting me?”

For a moment he’s so startled his mind goes blank, “M’not,” he finally mumbles, turning his back to her, although he most definitely has been.He takes a swing at the next cabinet, hitting it hard enough that the wood cracks loudly.The door swings on the hinges, but the damn thing doesn’t come off the wall.

“I called. Texted too,” she says icily, her hands on her hips her brow raised intimidatingly.

He ignores her and yanks the cabinet off of the wall, “Been busy.”

It’s a lie and the truth all at once, and he can’t look her in the eye when he says it.He feels embarrassed and grouchy, and out of sorts, and maybe it would be easier if she wasn’t looking at him like _that_.Like, there was almost something between him, like she actually cares that he’s fucked off without a word.

“I see that,” she retorts looking around at the mess he’s made in the kitchen.

“No time for any shenanigans today,” he grouses, knocking past her on his way out the front door, the cabinet still in his arms. He tosses it into the dumpster.

When he turns, wiping his gloved hands on his jeans, she’s standing on the last porch step eyeing him wearily. He can tell she wants to say it, say something like, _who cares what other people think?_ Or – _don’t let it get to you, people suck_.And honestly, that’s the last thing he wants to hear right now. 

“How about some help?” she says instead.

“I’m good,” he sighs crossly. “You wouldn’t want to get your hands dirty my lady.”

“Maybe I like getting my hands dirty,” she replies challengingly.

A silent, but loaded beat passes between them. _Why did she have to be so pretty?_ She steps down, and towards him, he takes a half step back, before grumpily crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine, whatever you want,” he relents, “You ever use a sledgehammer?”

**Arya II**

For her birthday, Sansa had made reservations at a posh, ridiculously expensive restaurant downtown that was owned by some famous chef, and his movie star wife.It was the kind of place that only had two dinner seating’s a night and had to be booked months in advance.

Thankfully its minimalist farmhouse vibe wasn’t overly pretentious, but Arya would have been just as happy with take out and homemade cupcakes for dessert. But it was hard to say no to her sister when she was in full on mom mode. Rickon had even been able to come home from college for the weekend to celebrate.

“You ok?” Jon whispers into her ear as the sommelier hands Sansa the wine list.

“Just tired,” she lies as Jon musses her hair.She forces herself to put on a happier face.Jon didn’t need more to worry about.

Across the table Bran catches her eye making her squirm in her seat until the waiter interrupts, setting down the appetizers.

They order way more food than they can eat and three bottles of Cabernet. Arya knows she should be enjoying it all, but her mind is elsewhere, relentlessly drifting back towards her conversation with Detective Clegane earlier in the day.

It had become force of habit to call Clegane once a month about her father’s case.A force of habit she had kept from her siblings, for reasons she couldn’t explain. It was always the same, no new leads, but still an open investigation, he’d call if there was news. But this time, before he’d hung up, he’d hesitated, like he knew he was pushing it, but went on anyway, and gruffly said, _“You’re opening the same wound over and over again, it’s ok to move on, be happy, to live, he’d want that for you.”_

She’d thrown her phone across the room, the familiar pinpricks of grief gathering at the corner of her eyes and deep in her throat. _What did stupid Detective Clegane know about it anyway?_

She shakes the memory away and blows out the candles on another year.

_____

On the way back, Jon lets her play whatever music she wants, despite Rickon groaning about it from the backseat.She rolls down her window and lets the cool night air tangle her hair and sting her skin. She tries to quiet the persistent, bone deep, ache over father’s murder, the unfairness of the accident that took Robb and mom just a year later. 

The road home takes them past Storm’s End, and although she can’t see Gendry’s little cottage out past the vines, the knowledge that he was there, probably scowling at something, makes her feel warm all over.Warmer than the wine that she’d probably had too much of tonight.

She flexes her arm against the wind whipping through the open window, her shoulders and biceps are still pleasantly sore from the past two days of tearing apart his kitchen. Who knew busting through drywall could be so exhilarating?

_After they had demoed his kitchen, they’d stopped to catch their breath and survey their work. Her hair had been a sweaty mess and she was covered in a fine layer of grime, but the room was a satisfying clean slate, the awkwardness between them had dissipated, and she couldn’t stop grinning._

_He’d handed her a beer from the cooler in the back of his truck, and they’d settled on the front step, their knees, bumping against each other, to watch the sun go down.She’d found herself telling him about father, and the accident.Things she’d never shared with anyone before. And once she’d started talking she found that she couldn’t stop.It was out of her comfort zone, but it felt – good, to finally be saying it._

_She had beenrelieved that Gendry hadn’t said anything stupid, hadn’t given her one of those pitying looks people thought made them look sympathetic, hadn’t tried to tell her everything was going to be alright._

_He’d merely shifted back onto his elbows, his eyes on the stars and said, I’m thinking about knocking down the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, tomorrow, you in?”_

The past few years she had felt so numb, like she didn’t even exist. Like all there was, was blind fury and overwhelming sadness boiling in her veins, clouding her judgement, cutting her off from rest of the world. But something about Gendry had broken through the fog of despair, had forced her to let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding in.

_What if she could?Move on?_

The thought takes hold, grows larger against her ribcage.Would moving on be the same thing as giving up?Because not getting justice for father is not something she can settle for.But could she allow herself some happiness?

The thoughts chase themselves in endless loops the rest of the way home.

_____

Reds and whites were always more popular than the rosé offered in the Winterfell tasting room, and they produce only limited amounts of it each year, most of it going to their gold tier members. She supposes she hadn’t given it much thought, but this year, the case in the cellar feels like it is calling to her in a way it never had before. What had her father seen in those bottles the year she was born that made him set this particular vintage aside like twelve future promises?

What would he have said on her 21st?On her wedding day? Would it have been something corny?Something that would have made her roll her eyes, her heart bursting with affection? Would he have told her he was proud of her?That she would always be his little wolf?

She’d never know of course, those future promises were dead and gone, just like the answers to all her questions.It was a somber thought, but last night, lying in bed, wine drunk, but unable to sleep, she’d thought maybe it didn’t have to be.Maybe, she could make some promises of her own. Promises to let some of the weight of grief go, to be open to new future promises.

For better or worse she’s always leaned towards impulsive, but she’s also learned to trust her gut, and in the light of day, this still feels right.She pulls on a pair of shorts and slips into her sneakers, and decides that she’s not going to stress about how she looks.She slips into the cellar, knowing exactly where she needs to go, and pulls a single bottle from its crate and slips it into her bag before she can change her mind. She stops by the storeroom and piles the things on her list into an empty crate.

On the way to the jeep, she uses the pocket knife Jon had given her ages ago, to cut a handful oflavender sprigs from the garden as well as a few of Sansa’s favorite blue roses and shoves them into a mason jar she’d added to her supplies, it’s not quite a houseplant, but it’ll do.

_____

She can hear loud music coming from the open windows, bluesy classic rock she can’t quite place.

Gendry is on his hands and knees, organizing planks of hardwood into tidy piles in the still bare kitchen.For a moment she just admires the shape of him, the way his capable hands move, the flex of his biceps.

“HI!” she yells loudly, knowing it’s going to startle him.

“Fuck!” he yells, rising onto his knees, clasping his chest.“You wanna give me a heart attack?”

She waits for him to turn down the music, the crate still in her arms.

“Nothing to demo today,” he warns, “laying hardwood is not nearly as fun.”

“You are staying right?” she demands, “You’re not going to let any rich assholes push you out of this place?”It’s inelegant, and out of the blue – she can tell by the bewildered way he blinks at her, but she has to know, whether taking this risk is worth letting her guard down.

He runs his hands through his hair, his gaze moving past her shoulder.When he finally looks at her, his eyes are blue steel, his lips set in a tight line, “Fuck no,” he grumbles.She smiles wolfishly in return.

“Good, then this is for you,” she says, setting the crate down and grasping the first thing her fingers touch.It’s the mason jar of flowers, and she quickly pushes it into his hands. “It’s supposed to be a stupid houseplant, but I didn’t have time.”

He looks down at the flowers and then up at her, his brow furrowed questioningly, “A stupid houseplant huh?”

“For your new house,” she tries to explain.“So that it may always have life,” she finishes falteringly, feeling that flush work its way up her neck.

He is looking at her like she might have suddenly grown two heads. It’s not exactly the vibe she’d been hoping for.Hadn’t been the plan, not last night, not this morning when she’d been so sure, but now . . .

“It’s what you do, stupid,” she sighs exasperatedly, “When someone gets a new home. “You bring gifts for good luck.”

“Oh.” he says slowly, his eyes travelling over her face.

She guesses she can’t blame him for being thrown off, the way she’d barreled in without preamble, a storm of emotions brewing inside of her. The sudden clarity about what she wants for herself, for the future, pushing against her ribcage like hope.

“Bread, so your cupboards will always be full,” she says waving the loaf in front of him before setting it back in the crate at her feet.“Olive oil, for health and wellbeing,” she says holding up the bottle so he can see it, “or so that you may always have light? I’m not sure which of those is right,” she shrugs.

He takes the glass bottle from her, inspecting the Winterfell logo.

“Salt . . .shit, I forgot what salt is for!”

“Flavor, I think,” he offers with a quirk of his lips.

“And, for my birthday -”

“Wait what?”He splutters, alarm in his blue eyes.

She rolls her eyes “Which was yesterday, I brought this,” she says tugging the bottle of wine out of her bag, “since you didn’t get me a present.”

“For the birthday I didn’t know about,” he accuses narrowing his eyes. “You could have said something before I put you to work hauling drywall to the dumpster.”

“Make it up to me then.”

_____

“I thought you said fine wine is more than something just to get drunk on,” he pokes at her, “at noon,” he chides, looking at his watch.

She crosses her legs and works at the cork, it’s old and a little crumbly, but she expertly eases it out.She can feel his eyes on her. He opens his mouth, on the verge of protesting how cavalierly she’s opening such an expensive bottle of wine, and that he doesn’t even have proper wine glasses, just these stupid red solo cups.She pours a generous amount into both cups before he can.

It’s pretty salmon color is lost in the plastic, but it feels right to be sitting under the shade of this tree, grass tickling her bare legs, _her_ bottle of rosé between them, the sky impossibly, perfectly, blue.

She takes several long moments to savor the flavor on her tongue; sun dried apricots, rose petals, a zing of spice, but mellow on her tongue, and bright like afternoon sunshine.

She looks up at him gauging is reaction.

He takes another sip, his blue eyes on hers. “Not what I expected,” he says a after a moment.“It’s good.”

She refills their glasses, and he raises a brow, but clinks his cup against hers when she wiggles closer to him and holds hers up.They drink in companionable silence, watching the way the lavender fields sway in the distance, the wine working its way through her in a warm wave.

_She could let go.She could be happy._

“Everything alright?” he cautiously asks.

She finds herself wanting to throw back her head and laugh like a loon, for the first time in a long time it feels like things might actually turn out alright.

She tries and fails to make her face blank, to not scare him away with how much the bottle of wine really means, but maybe he’s gotten good at reading her face, or maybe she’s already tipsy, because he narrows his eyes, reaches for the bottle, prying it out of her hands to scrutinize it.

“Is this?”

“Yeah,” she confirms nonchalantly, taking a sip.

He opens his mouth, and she knows he’s going to ruin it. That he hasn’t forgotten their conversation about her father saving it for her. That he knows how important it is, that he’s going to be weird about drinking it now.

“Before you say anything stupid,” she warns, putting a hand up to stop him.

“How do you know it was going be stupid?” he argues. 

She squints at him.

“Fine,” he grumbles, “go on.”

“I don’t want you to ask if I’m sure.Or if I’d rather save this for a special occasion.”

“Too late for that anyway,” he mutters holding the bottle up. They’ve already drunk half.

“Or, shouldn’t I share with someone else?” she says in a mocking tone, that makes him narrow his eyes at her. “It is my bottle of wine, and I get to share it with whoever I want, however I want, whenever I want.”

“And I’m the person you want?” he asks after a moment, his voice low, his gaze suddenly heated, “To share it with?”

“Duh, see what I mean? Stupid,” she mutters picking at the grass.

When she looks up he’s watching her carefully.

He leans in and tucks a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. His movements maddeningly slow, watching her face, reading every micro expression, like she might change her mind.

But she’s already made it up, so she leans in and kisses him. He makes a soft noise of surprise, before his lips are eagerly pushing back against hers.

Epilogue: Arya and Gendry III

He’s walking her backwards and through the front door, letting the stupid tool belt that she has more than once told him is a complete turn on, fall at their feet.There’s still a lot of work to do, he’s supposed to be starting on the tile in the downstairs bathroom, but she can’t help distracting him on days like this. Days when you can smell the lavender fields on the breeze, everything turning green again, the brilliant blue sky above, making her feel light, soft.

She’s just finished planting sunflowers in the garden and her hands are dirty, but Gendry doesn’t notice.His fingers flex against her hips, pulling her flush against him. Without breaking the kiss, he kicks the door closed behind them.

She’s guiding him how, pulling him towards the staircase. Their feet hit that squeaky floorboard and they momentarily break apart, simultaneously breathing out anticipatory chuckles.

They fall into their bed gracelessly. She lifts her hips, and he slips her panties down her leg, tossing them over his shoulder.They move against each other easily, his lips and tongue finding the places that make her shiver and gasp. 

_____

He’s almost finished with a commission piece for one of the other vineyards, a sleek looking dragon that he’s feeling rather proud of. But, his stomach is grumbling, so he shuts the forge down wondering if he can tear Arya away long enough to head into town for burgers and maybe a beer.

He drops down into the other rocker on the front porch.Arya’s got a folder of documents on her lap that came via messenger from some retired cop, and a glass of wine at her bare feet.He squeezes her hand. He sort of loves her persistence, her loyalty, her sense of justice. It might be his favorite thing about her.

“Food?”

“Gods yes,” she yawns, standing up and stretching.

He’d come here not knowing anything about wine.Still doesn’t. But he knows enough to have a favorite.If pressed to describe it, he’d say; intense, floral, spicy at first, then opening into a delicate strawberry. It’s the kind that you can drink out of a plastic cup, under an early autumn afternoon sky, right out there under the live oak in their front yard.

He drives down the bumpy dirt road, windows rolled down, music up loud, and it occurs to him, not for the first time, that maybe instead of hating Robert Baratheon, he should suck it up and admit, that if it wasn’t for him he’d never have ended up here.Where it turns out, he actually does belong,


End file.
